Ad Finem
by Intervigilium
Summary: Challenge Fic, "The Carli Lloyd Classic". Contestants had a week to write 1000-2500 words about "An end, and a beginning". My opponent wrote: /s/11582201/1/Helena
1. Decide

**DISCLAIMER** : Don't own the characters, don't own the world.

You rub your thumb against your fingers, trying to remove whatever invisible dirt is there. It keeps you from thinking of how your feet feel awkward in these shoes and how the slight creaking of your chair makes you consider exercising more.

 _See? Not thinking about that at all._

Inadequacy in your own skin isn't a new friend, but it's certainly been a distant one lately; you like to think you grew out of the image you had of yourself when you were younger.

Hell. Somedays, even the image _others_ had of you seems long gone.

And then there are days like this one, when you're a guest to the wedding of two people very dear to your heart. Everyone smiles and all things make sense; it's the new chapter readers knew in advance. They fit.

But the bride smiles, and your mind wanders; why, Merlin, did it take so damn long to figure out that you have been in love with this woman?

(Indeed, days like this one make you feel like you haven't _**really**_ come a long way, don't they?)

You don't recall when it happened exactly. Like most people, you admired her assertiveness, the confidence she displayed and her desire to be ahead of the curve – all things well out of your reach. Unlike most people, she was kind and patient with your mistakes. Slow and steady, the fire grew in silence until it was too great to ignore, and by the time you received the wedding invitation, the flames licked your insides to ashes.

Of course, she didn't choose you – how could she, when she was never aware that you were among the candidates? You see the husband – the natural bet most people made while you were all growing up; lad doesn't seem to believe his own luck. There's their closest friend too, proud best man – if you're being honest with yourself, that's where you had your money from the start.

 _Well, if the old rumors have any grain of truth, even our school nemesis had a better shot than I did._ _ **That's**_ _where I stand._

You hush the possibilities flashing before your eyes. At least a couple of extraordinary folks (you know there's a lot more that could be mentioned, but _they_ will always stand out) sacrificed quite a bit to get you where you are today, and that's no place for a man daydreaming of a married woman to occupy.

So you applaud and cheer like everyone else; you force the broken pieces of your heart back into shape every time she looks your way with the affectionate smile she'd give a brother.

Ultimately, that's the closest definition of what you are, isn't it? You fought, bled and grieved together - whatever invisible thread connects souls that shared such things, it is definitely there between you two. Perhaps, you think, this is only a backlash of seeing yet another couple that begins a story of their own, another couple you'll start seeing less of. This can't be love, at least not the passionate kind, you decide (for the hundredth time), and that quiets the uneasy drumming inside your chest for now.

 _It's over. It was never possible to begin with._

This sudden conviction overrides all the discomfort you've been feeling for weeks and carries you home with only minor deviations. Those, you blame on alcohol. Later, you apologize to the bottle; must be such a poor existence, you tell it, being often blamed for the decisions of others. It assures you it's quite all right and tells you to go to bed.

The next morning, everything is back where it belongs - neglected feelings included. You make a mental note to buy and disassemble a Remembrall to figure out how it works. Perhaps you can reverse-engineer it into alerting you when you're remembering things you shouldn't.

You look at the empty bottle.

It calls you an idiot.

* * *

You'll miss that familiar clank of lift doors.

"Hey."

You could do without some of the surprises the atrium threw your way sometimes, though.

"Hi! What are you-?"

"Goblin Liaison Office." She smiles. "Rowling said she could use the help this week."

"I hear they're not appreciative of her making stuff up as she goes during their meetings. Goblins must be glad you're helping her."

"Is it true?"

"You know her, of course it's-"

"I meant you leaving."

"Oh." _That._ "Yeah, officially, I'm only out next Friday, but I already assigned ongoing cases to other Aurors and the paperwork is mostly done. Boss has been helping me with that."

"So I hear. He was talking to us about how you'll be missed the other day."

"They're kind. I hear the office's been trying to get a secret farewell party going next week. You can tell the secret part of it was a bust, but the intention coun-"

"Why didn't you tell me?"

… _?_

"Tell you… about what, leaving the Auror Office?" You take her exasperated stare as a nod. "I haven't told anyone, really. They only knew because they work directly with me."

"So you'd just pack up and leave? Why?"

You sigh. "It's not where I'm meant to be."

She huffs. "That's nonsense. What about all the -?"

For once, it's you that gets to cut in. "My best work for the Office has been related to research, updating field procedures concerning emergency uses of local flora worldwide. I can do that without being directly involved to the Aurors. Let the fighters do the fighting."

You try to keep moving but she stands in your way. "And since when aren't you a fighter?"

The atrium sounds grow around you; this conversation has to end, fast.

"I **was** a soldier. That's what I needed to be. But that war is over now – rather, it's a different war. I need to be someone else now. Somewhere else. You'd think my friends would respect my decision, even if they don't understand it."

You say it hard, she gets it harder.

"I-I'm sorry. I didn't mean to –"

"Then what's with the twenty questions all of a sudden? Not everything is controllable, you know."

You **really** don't get it. Your friendship has been kept to a safe distance, where the most conversation you two get involves greetings at work and the same old stories when you reunite with the rest of Hogwarts' misfits. This is the most you've talked to each other in months, really.

And you sort of get why she likes interrupting people. But it suits her so much better, and you regret it immediately. She sees it, takes pity on you and smiles.

"Five. And a half."

"Five and a half what?"

She closes the gap between you and places the softest of kisses on your cheek. "Those were five and a half questions. Not twenty. And don't apologize. I had that coming."

 _Of course she counted._

She moves past you, joining three other people into the lift you just got out of.

"Just keep us posted when you settle somewhere else," she says. "And don't be a stranger."

"Well, it's not like I'll disappear. I still know all the annual meeting dates," you manage to quip.

The last thing you see is that same smile you remember earning at her wedding. While time took care of lessening the effects of untreated infatuation, you can still feel it clawing at your insides, burning where that chaste kiss was placed a minute ago.

 _Breathe._

You take solace from the fact that, after a week, seeing her will no longer be a gamble every time a door opens when you're at work. **Work**. That's right, come next Friday you don't have one anymore.

At least, not until the Interdepartmental memo your coworker just sent you hits you in the head. Apparently, Hogwarts' Headmistress has a matter she'd like to discuss with you.

* * *

Merlin's lacy knickers, how you love this place.

 _Mental note: write that damn Irish and tell him he has forever ruined the usage of Merlin in sentences for me._

Of course, things have changed. You can't expect the new staff to pull off speeches the way that the former administration could. I mean, nitwit, blubber, oddment, tweak? No, you see her as a bit of an alliteration aficionada; perhaps something like… angsty ankles ache agonizingly?

 _I'm very tired._

Walking the same halls and corridors as a professor should have changed your perspective, but the fact is that you still adore everything the exact same way you did when you were a child, with the bonus that the things that made you cower and shrink no longer have the same power over you. Being able to teach others has taught you just as much.

You can still smell the summer rain outside the window. Holding the last class plan in your hands, you're amazed at how fast they were completed. You'll be home earlier than you promised your lady; this brings a smile to your face. Hopefully, to hers as well.

Someone's knocking. "Come in," you say without thinking; peace has made you careless.

Remember that old comforting thought of no gambles every time a door opens at work? Guess again, mate.

Although she's several meters away, your senses already attune to her presence. You can tell which perfume she's using, and how it laces perfectly with her own scent. You know by heart the rhythm that her steps will make. Your eyes close in on the hand that's about to let go of the doorknob and join its twin in front of her coat.

You shouldn't know all that. You surely don't want to. But here you are and your heart spells its panic louder and louder. Beat. Defeat. Repeat.

"Professor."

The word rolls playfully out of her mouth. You bow only an inch from behind your desk.

"Future Minister."

This makes her laugh. "Let's not get carried away."

 _Good, solid plan._ You've successfully avoided obsessing over this impossible love for years now. You've moved on, lad, get your bearings. Show some manners.

"This is unexpected," you croak.

 _Perfect. You dunce._

"I've been practicing that." She walks around, observing the changes you made to a room she didn't know. You're a simple man, or so you believe; so you surround yourself with simple things. "I'm told I'm a little obsessed with schedules and **controlling everything** ", she says with a sly wink.

"And you decided to listen? Shocking."

"Isn't it?"

"So you took the afternoon to visit old friends, then?"

" **A** friend", she corrects you, "one who's remarkably lacking about staying in touch."

She hangs her coat and sits, the sun illuminating her beaming face. "Well, as unpredictable as you're trying to be," you start, moving away from your desk to avoid staring, "you still got here in time for tea."

"It's always time for tea," she corrects you yet again.

Her eyes are contemplating the fuming cup in her hands. A drop of milk, no sugar. You remembered. She awards Gryffindor ten points for presentation and deducts two for the absence of PG Tips - you don't lose the whole ten because you had Lipton. Can professors gain or lose points? None of you think so.

"This suits you", she proclaims between sips, one last look around the room. "Teaching."

"I hope so."

"It does. You look so happy."

"Well, I am." You really are.

"I assume that includes your new relationship, then."

You lean back on your chair. _Ah_. "So that's what this is all about, then?"

"I have absolutely no idea what you're going on about."

You can't help smiling. "Well, to confirm whatever rumors you heard, yes. We've been seeing each other."

There's a pause. She leans closer to the table. "And?"

"And... what?"

"Details."

It's just like her to forget that, regardless of how good your friendship may be to her, you are still very much a man. Details are a concept lost on you.

You still manage a basic explanation on how you decided to celebrate your new employment with a drink at the Cauldron, and found the landlady to be someone you knew. How what you planned to be a quiet contemplation of the possibilities ahead of you turned out to be a night spent wide awake talking about both your pasts and presents.

Then there are the things you don't tell her about the landlady. How her voice is attractive, and the same can be said about her lips, as you eventually found out. How the feeling of the curves of her hip sliding to meet yours (the first night you spent awake without clothes to impede your conversation) has no equal, or how there's a certain taste around the back of her neck when you press your lips against it after waking up that's just... you know. _Those_ things.

You suspect she can see right through you anyway - a happily married woman surely would.

But then you ask about her life, and all that the light reflects in the room is doubt. You were never a good interrogator; luckily you don't need to be one to see when someone's barely holding something in.

This (whatever it is), you imagine, is what she's been meaning to discuss all along.

She insists it's late and that she should go. You nudge, and you circle and close in, and by the time you hear the last lock clicking open, there's a tear streaming down her face.

Things aren't the way they were supposed to be. Or they are, and her expectations were just unrealistic. They're both accepting work assignments that cause them to be apart from each other, and it's not as bad as she thinks it should be. She suspects he feels the same.

You hear the word 'therapy' a lot.

When nothing's left to say, you're both sitting on the floor, backs against the wall. She sobs quietly on your shoulder. You offered your hand several minutes ago, and she's still holding it for dear life.

"What happened?" she asks.

You're supposed to have the answer, it seems.

 _A Ministry job and you're married to your school sweetheart/something. Wasn't that you wanted in the first place? What happened is that your dreams came true, my dear._

"I don't know" is what you whisper back. She looks up. And it may be the emotional discharge, or a trick of the light, but her eyes seem to focus on your lips.

 _They should NOT be focused there. And her thumb should NOT be caressing my hand._

 **You revel in it. Oh, how you dreamt of this moment; the words you'd say, the things you'd do.**

 _She has absolutely no right to be doing this right now. She doesn't even want me – she just wants someone different, and I happen to be here!_

 **But you are here, are you not? She came here looking for you. YOU.**

 _This is an emotionally unstable woman. A friend. If I take advantage of her now, I won't be able to look her in the eye again and she will never forgive me. No one will, for that matter. She needs to go!_

Mind and blood make a dance floor out of you, taking turns to lead, trying to figure out who'll win. She's impossibly close, and you know that in the span of a few seconds, you'll have to make a decision. There will be destruction and rebuilding regardless of your choice. You can't build a road, be it to Heaven or Hell or whatever lies beyond, without breaking the ground ahead.

You can pull her closer, or tell her it's time to go home.

Beat. Defeat. Beat. Defeat. Beat. Defeat.

Decide.

 **AUTHOR NOTE:** my special thanks to the members of the Teachers' Lounge, for all their lessons, encouragement and support. I write a little bit better everyday because of you.


	2. Sunrise

_Sunrise._

Your roommates were always too tired to accompany your morning ritual when you were younger, and you're sort of glad for that; admiring Hogwarts' first light from the Gryffindor tower was a private proof of magic that you kept for yourself over the years. You've always planned on becoming a better photographer, so there'd be a way to show it to your children someday before they got to Hogwarts.

You chuckle. _Children. I'm thinking of children._

The rays filter through the windows of your office with the same persistence they've had for centuries. Such an abstract repetition, you ponder: we'll come and go, but there will always be another sunrise.

You can hear her stirring in your bed, and the noise brings you back to the present. Careful with your steps, you peek through the door that links your office to your chambers.

A mess of brown hair hides her features. Still fast asleep using the clothes she wore the day before, she extends her arm over the side of the bed that's as neatly arranged as it was when you laid her down to rest.

You tap the cup to your left, enchanting it so the tea will be at the right temperature when she wakes up, sheathing the wand back into its holster (a parting gift lovingly purchased by the Auror Office for your retirement; sewn in the leather, the phrase "A soldier will always be a soldier").

When you look up, she's staring right back at you, wearing her shame like a vibrant aura as her eyes scan the room and her brain, without a doubt, guides her through the events of last night.

You maintain eye contact and assure her, wordlessly, that all the things you said and promised a few hours ago when she cried into your shoulder are still true. That she's just confused, perhaps as confused as her husband is, and that whatever needs to happen, it surely won't happen here.

Half of your mouth curves into a smile and promises her no harm have been done to your friendship, and you both know, as she smiles back, that _this_ is why she truly came to see you. Because when hope was riding a broom into the sunset and all Hell broke loose that fateful day, you held the bloody line; you let whatever fight was left in you do the talking, and by Merlin you'd let it free till there was absolutely nothing else you could do to make things right.

She came here because a soldier will always be a soldier, and there will never be another quite the same as you.

* * *

You arrive home to find another woman to wake up. She never questions your delay, dreamily smiling to the sight of you caressing her cheek.

You don't pat this one's arm lightly. No, sir. This one, you take your time kissing lazily as you settle in, cradling her body with your arm and pulling her closer as if you existed only to complete that space next to her.

The rush inside your veins told you to decide.

" _You're worth twelve of him", my friend once told me._

You heart knew there was no decision at all to make.

Hell.

You really _have_ come a long way, haven't you?

 **AUTHOR NOTE** : Well, some of you asked for a proper ending, and that's the one I would've liked to deliver. I invite my reviewers to go and write their own epilogues as well, if they so choose. ;)


End file.
